


Caveat Emptor

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:29:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paintings from an unsolved robbery nearly twenty years before begin to emerge onto the market. The seller claims they were stolen by Eroica. Dorian swears he didn't do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Caveat emptor = 'Let the buyer beware'

_After midnight on March 18, 1990, two thieves disguised as police officers arrived at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, claiming that they were responding to a call about a disturbance in the courtyard. They then handcuffed the security guards, shut them in the basement of the building, and spent more than an hour in the museum stealing thirteen works of art including paintings by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Manet and Tortoni, and drawings by Degas. The crime has never been solved._

 

_Nearly twenty years later …_

 

**MONDAY**

**Bonn**

“Faber can be thankful I haven’t dismissed him on the spot. Something like this could bring disgrace down on the Museum and everyone who works here. The Museum’s reputation would be tarnished – the newspapers would have a field day!”

Inspector Gerd Scherer listened patiently to the Museum Director’s indignant tirade. The Director was behaving as if Faber’s actions were a calculated attack on the Museum’s integrity. Scherer supposed that he probably felt let down, since the young man was his protégé, but he thought the Director was taking it rather too personally. 

Over in the corner, the young man who was the focus of his investigation sat clutching a thin plastic beaker, staring morosely at the plush carpet on the floor of the Director’s office. 

Scherer almost felt sorry for Bruno Faber. He was the Director’s executive assistant, on a fast track to great things – but now he was in disgrace because of a lapse of judgement. Still, thought Scherer, it had been a very big lapse of judgement. Buying a stolen painting for a large amount of money was no minor indiscretion, whatever field you might work in.

Scherer’s junior officer hung up the phone. “Headquarters has contacted Interpol,” he said. “They’re sending Inspector Alain Fournier. He’ll be in Bonn tomorrow afternoon.”

The Museum Director sat down heavily in his chair and mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief. “Whatever happens, Inspector Scherer, I’m trusting you to keep this investigation discreet.”

Scherer smiled reassuringly. “Herr Director, the Museum is not implicated. The only connection is that Herr Faber works here. The Museum should suffer no disgrace.”

He crossed the room to speak to Faber, who looked miserable. With good cause: he could go to jail. 

The initial interrogation hadn’t been difficult. Nervous, regretful, and embarrassed, Faber had fallen over himself to admit the facts. Yes, he’d known that the painting was stolen. Yes, he was aware that it was a major work of art that the authorities had been trying to recover for nearly twenty years. No, he couldn’t explain why he did it. He’d won the money at the races on a day out with friends, so he decided to splash out and buy something he wouldn’t be able to afford otherwise. It was a thrill – he’d wanted to do something daring for once in his life. No, he hadn’t considered the long term implications. Yes, of course he regretted doing it – just as he regretted getting drunk at a party and boasting about it to a girl he wanted to impress. He should have realised she might tell someone about it. 

None of this was anything out of the ordinary to Scherer. Except – Faber had said that the man who sold the painting to him claimed it had been stolen by the thief Eroica. 

Three years before, Scherer had been seconded to a special operations unit working with NATO Intelligence to provide protection for a secret Heads of Government meeting. The secondment had taught him a thing or two about international security, including that when an intelligence agency needs expertise, they’ll hire it without regard for conventional sensibilities. On that assignment, he’d worked closely with Major Klaus von dem Eberbach – and, although he hadn’t met the man himself, he knew that the Major had a specialist contractor working behind the scenes. Eroica.

Scherer held Major von dem Eberbach in high regard. Effective, efficient, objective: the kind of man the police force could learn from, in Scherer’s opinion. If one of his specialist contractors was likely to be in trouble, von dem Eberbach would want to know about it.

. 

. 

**North Downs**

Dorian picked up the phone, to hear Bonham say in worried tones, “It’s the Major, calling from Bonn. M’lord, ‘e don’t sound too pleased.”

“It’s all right, Bonham, put him through.” 

A moment later, Klaus came on the line. “I think you have some explaining to do!” he snapped.

“Do I, darling?” Dorian asked mildly, wondering what had stirred Klaus into a temper this time. “What about?” 

Volcanic fury simmered behind the voice on the other end of the line. “This morning, I got a phone call from an Inspector on the local police force. It seems that some idiot here in Bonn has purchased a stolen painting, taken from a museum in the United States years ago—“

“Sale of a stolen painting?” Dorian interrupted. “Surely this is a police matter, nothing to do with NATO. Why was your office even notified?”

“The call was unofficial. The fool who bought the painting said he’d been told it was stolen by Eroica. One of the investigating police officers knew about the connection between Eroica and NATO because he worked on a mission with us three years ago – so he called me, off the record.”

Dorian suddenly felt very cautious. “Klaus…” he said carefully. “What painting are we talking about?”

“Vermeer. _The Concert._ ”

“What! _The Concert_ was one of the works stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in 1990. Somebody bluffed their way into the museum, and made off with paintings, sketches, other objects—”

“So you do know about this theft!” 

“Of course I do – it’s one of the most famous unsolved art thefts in living memory. But Klaus – it wasn’t me. Eroica didn’t do that job.”

“No? The seller asserted that this is why the painting has only reappeared now, after all this time. He said Eroica is well known for holding on to art pieces he has a personal regard for. This sounds like you.”

“Klaus, I’ve already told you—“

“Where were you in March 1990? In the United States?”

“No, I wasn’t!” Incensed at Klaus’s refusal to believe him, Dorian unleashed his own temper. “Even if I was, how dare you suggest I had anything to do with that theft? The thieves butchered those paintings when they stole them – hacked the canvasses out of their frames. I’d never do that – I have more respect for art!”

“An audacious operation, well timed, well targeted, no traces left – sounds like Eroica to me.”

“Uneven selection of artworks, damage to the paintings – not my style. Klaus, for goodness’ sake, why aren’t you listening to me?”

“If you’re lying—! Dorian, if you’re lying to me—!” 

“I’m not lying. Damn it, Klaus, what do I have to say to make you believe what I’m telling you?”

“Dorian—! Dorian, if you did this—!” Inarticulate with fury, Klaus drew in a ragged, angry breath.

Silence reigned for a few moments.

“Klaus,” said Dorian, in serious tones. “I didn’t do it.”

“Dorian, Interpol is already involved. Even if you didn’t do this, if their investigations lead them to you they’ll arrest you. I don’t think I’ll be able to shield you. They’ll find something to charge you with, and if you’re convicted— I don’t like to think of what will happen to you in prison.” 

Dorian could hear Klaus swallowing hard. He injected a light tone into his words that did not really match his feelings. “Then we’ll have to prove that it wasn’t Eroica – before they come looking for me.”

For the rest of the day, Dorian found himself brooding about Interpol. He’d had very few brushes with them during his long career as Eroica. His closest call had been many years before, when an Inspector Bannai had become obsessed with arresting him. Eroica had outflanked him, and the man retired quietly from Interpol shortly after that, on medical grounds. Word was that a serious nervous breakdown had rendered him unfit for service.

Klaus’s enraged accusations had been annoying, but the thing that unsettled Dorian was the realisation that Klaus’s rage was covering up his fears that this time, Dorian might really be in danger.


	2. Tuesday

**TUESDAY**

**Bonn**

“Sir, there’s an officer from Interpol here to see you, an Inspector Alain Fournier.”

The words were no sooner out of Agent A’s mouth than the Interpol officer shouldered past him into Klaus’s office. Annoyed at the man’s presumption, Klaus presented a less than welcoming face to the newcomer. 

“Inspector Fournier. To what to I owe the pleasure?” Klaus glanced at A, still standing in the doorway. “That will be all, thank you, Herr A.”

Grateful to escape, A closed the door quietly and went back to his desk. Klaus signalled to Fournier to take a seat. “So, Inspector, what do you want?”

“Major, I’m here about a matter that’s being investigated by Interpol, but I’d like to emphasise that this visit doesn’t form an official part of the investigation. I’m hoping that you and I might be able to assist each other unofficially. It would be in the interests of both our organisations if we kept our collaboration on an informal basis.”

“Oh?” 

“Major, Interpol has been called in by the local police to aid in the investigation into the sale of a stolen painting – a significant cultural treasure taken from a museum in the United States something like twenty years ago.”

“Stolen painting? What’s that got to do with NATO?” 

“Normally, nothing. In this particular instance, quite a lot. It was stolen by the thief known as Eroica.”

Klaus gave no sign that he recognised the name.

“Major, you’re in a position to help us here.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I believe that you know who Eroica is. You’ve hired him on occasion to work for you.”

Perhaps Fournier had hoped to shock him into cooperating, but Klaus did not react. He’d wondered, sometimes, whether Interpol had known that. How long had they known? How did they first find out? He could see Fournier watching him keenly, trying to gauge his response, but Klaus’s expression gave nothing away.

Fournier started to become irritated. “Major, I had hoped that your sense of right and wrong would prevail here. Eroica’s a criminal. The man has caused financial loss to public and private owners that runs into millions.”

Klaus glared stonily at the officer. “Inspector Fournier, you’re wasting your time. Stolen paintings are of no interest to NATO; they’re of no interest to me. Don’t presume to lecture me about my sense of right and wrong. I’m unable to assist you. Good day, Inspector.”

Klaus stood up, expecting Fournier to do the same. He didn’t.

“Look, Eberbach – “

“ _Von dem_ Eberbach,” Klaus corrected him frostily. “ _Major_ von dem Eberbach.”

“Major von dem Eberbach,” Fournier ground out, resenting every syllable, “Interpol is aware that you deal with the art thief Eroica. You’ve hired him to assist NATO more than once. You know the man’s identity.”

Klaus shrugged. “I can neither confirm nor deny that. The identity of NATO’s operatives is classified. A matter of international security.”

Fournier glowered sullenly at Klaus. “They said you were an uncooperative bastard.”

“They?”

Fournier didn’t bother to elaborate on who ‘They’ were, but Klaus didn’t really care. 

Stalemate. Klaus had information Interpol wanted, but without ignoring the rules of professional cooperation Fournier could not force him to disclose it.

The Inspector stood up and glared at Klaus. “You know the man’s identity, and if I had any legal means of bringing pressure to bear on you, I’d demand that you divulge that information to me. As it is, just be aware: we’re watching.” 

Displeasure written all over his face, Fournier stomped out of Klaus’s office, leaving the door swinging open.

 _Empty threats_ , thought Klaus. _You haven’t found out who Eroica is in all these years, and you’re not going to find out now. Not from me._

. 

. 

**Not far from North Downs**

Dorian had never visited the Honourable Hugh Rainsford before, but he’d been intrigued by a telephone call he’d received the evening before. 

“Gloria,” Rainsford had crowed, “I have something that I think you will be interested to see. I’ve acquired a painting.”

And so, keen to find a distraction from the matter of the stolen Vermeer in Bonn, he’d accepted Rainsford’s invitation.

The two didn’t know each other well. Dorian had vague memories of Rainsford as a pale-faced child in the Junior School during his own last years at Eton. In more recent years they had met at social events, where Rainsford had made an unfavourable impression on Dorian with his over-familiar manner and his lack of wit and flair: the man was dull, and he tried too hard to impress. 

Rainsford lived with his vapid, fashionable wife and their three picture-perfect children in a prosperous part of Surrey. His career in banking brought in a salary generous enough to support his family’s showy lifestyle and to allow Hugh himself to indulge some of his whims. Hugh Rainsford had pretentions to being an art collector.

A glass of gin and tonic in hand, Dorian sat in Rainsford’s drawing room.

“Now, Gloria,” began Rainsford, “you have a fearsome reputation as someone who knows about art. I know that you will appreciate what I am going to show you. But I have to ask for your discretion.” His voice dropped, although there was no-one else in the house to listen. “This painting has not been seen for a while; it’s been in hiding, you might say.”

Dorian raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Rainsford could barely suppress his own excitement as he replied to the unspoken question. “This painting ... disappeared, shall we say … some few years ago. I was very lucky to get the offer to buy it, and I can assure you, Gloria, that I snapped it up without hesitation. But I do have to be … circumspect … about who can see it.”

“What’s the point of having a painting you can’t let everyone see?” asked Dorian disingenuously. The Earl of Gloria knew all about having a secret collection, of course, but Hugh Rainsford didn’t know anything about the Earl’s less public activities and took the question at face value.

“This painting is something very, very special. Buying it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. As time goes on, it’ll become a family heirloom; after a few generations, nobody will care about where it spent the last few years and how it came into the family.”

Dorian shifted impatiently in his seat. Obviously, Rainsford had bought something on the black market and the excitement he was deriving from his flirtation with the dark side was giving him as much pleasure as owning the painting itself. 

“So are you going to tell me what it is?” Dorian sipped his gin and tonic.

“Rembrandt.” Rainsford looked smug. “ _Storm on the Sea of Galilee_.”

Dorian’s eyes went wide. “Good Lord,” he said. “The Isabella Stewart Gardner Collection.” 

“Oh, yes,” chortled Rainsford. “The great unsolved art theft of the 1990s. Well, it’s been twenty years, but whoever’s had the paintings seems to be letting them go. They approached me two months ago. Knew all about my collection; knew all about my tastes. At the price they named, I couldn’t refuse. Gloria, I don’t mind telling you: I made a killing.” He put down his empty glass and stood with a commanding flourish. “Let me show you the greatest treasure I own.”

The men crossed the spacious room to a solid mahogany door leading to Rainsford’s private study. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocked it, and led Dorian in. 

The painting hung on the wall next to his ostentatious antique-reproduction desk. In self-congratulatory tones, Rainsford said, “There it is. If I never buy another painting in my life, I’ll still die happy. Owning a Rembrandt has to be the absolute pinnacle of delight for me.”

Dorian’s expression grew serious as he gazed at the painting. He moved closer, raking his eyes across the canvas. Closer again, closer still, until he stood only a pace away from the picture, homing in on the brush strokes, the blending and layering of colours, the texture of the paint. 

“What do you think, Gloria?”

Dorian turned to face his host. “Well, somebody made a killing – but I’m afraid it wasn’t you, Rainsford. It’s a forgery.”

The colour drained from Rainsford’s face. His mouth sagged open. “Forgery? Are you certain?”

“Of course I am. It’s good, but not quite good enough. It’s a forgery, beyond doubt.” 

Rainsford flopped into the nearest armchair and rubbed a trembling hand over his face. “So it’s worthless? I’ve spent more than two years’ salary, and it’s not worth a penny?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Rainsford; it’s a very good reproduction.” Dorian gazed around the room, taking in the faux Regency furniture, the imitation Tiffany glasswork, the replica duelling pistols mounted on the wall.

“Reproduction! That’s not what I paid for!” Rainsford spluttered angrily. “The fellow I dealt with represented this as being a genuine Rembrandt! A painting with a history!” Colour flushed back into his face, daubing two angry red blotches on his cheeks. “And now—! I’ve been cheated! It’s reprehensible!” 

“Not much you can do about it, though, is there?” Dorian drawled. “Caveat emptor, and all that. You can’t very well go to the police. It’s a criminal offence to knowingly buy stolen goods. Of course, since the painting isn’t what you thought it was, that might not apply, but it’s rather a sticky situation all the same, don’t you think? If I were you, I’d just keep quiet about it. Look on the bright side: you can display it now. You can tell everyone you had it hand painted by one of those copyist chaps.”

Once he’d been informed that his costly purchase was not the real thing, Rainsford lost his relish for entertaining, and Dorian’s visit was cut short. On the way home, Dorian thought through the implications of what he had seen. If more than one painting from the same heist had been sold recently, there had to be a connection between the two sales. And, if one of them had proved to be a fake, the likelihood was that the other one would be too.

As soon as he arrived home, he phoned Klaus.

“I’ve just come back from seeing a man who wanted to show me a painting he’s acquired. Klaus, the painting was another one from the Isabella Stewart Gardner heist – but it was a forgery.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. It was good enough to take in an uninformed buffoon like Rainsford, but not good enough to withstand expert scrutiny.”

“Who is this man? A collector? Surely he would have checked the painting’s provenance.”

“The man’s a fool,” Dorian said contemptuously. “He’d like to build a reputation as an art collector but he has no taste. He’s a pretentious no-talent who earns more money than is good for him and spends it trying to impress people. He’s a laughing stock, really. But never mind Rainsford. Klaus, this is too big a coincidence. The Vermeer in Bonn, now this Rembrandt – both of these paintings are supposed to be from the Gardner heist. The two incidents have to be linked. If the painting Rainsford bought was a forgery, this other one probably is, too. Has its authenticity been checked?”

“I don’t know – possibly not. Unless it’s routinely done, I’d say not.”

“Then get them to check it – now! I’ll bet London to a brick that it’s a fake.”

“I’ll get it looked at – but I’ll have to tread carefully. I had Interpol here this afternoon – a mannerless bastard by the name of Inspector Alain Fournier. Said he knew that you’d done work for NATO and tried to push me into revealing your identity.”

A shadowy shiver of fear passed through Dorian. “Do you think you’ve seen the last of him?”

“Can’t say.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. 

“Klaus – get them to check that painting. If it’s a forgery, then that makes it an entirely different case. It’s not about Eroica robbing the Gardner museum any more: it’s about someone passing off fake paintings. Eroica’s not a forger. It’ll change the direction of their enquiries.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll get someone to look at the Vermeer.” Klaus rang off, and leafed through his phone book for Gerd Scherer’s number.


	3. Wednesday

**WEDNESDAY**

**North Downs**

Bonham leaned in at the door of Dorian’s study. “M’lord? Telephone call – it’s Sandy Selkirk.”

Sandy Selkirk ran an antique shop in Edinburgh, a cramped, dark little establishment in one of the narrow cobbled streets in the old part of the city. He’d been trading in antiques for fifty years and his shop did brisk business, frequented by buyers and sellers from all over the United Kingdom who trusted his honesty and dependability. Selkirk counted the prominent art collector the Earl of Gloria amongst his most highly valued customers, and he’d called on the Earl’s expertise a number of times to authenticate paintings or _objets d’art_. 

Profitable though it was, the shop was only a front: Sandy’s heart and soul were in his other business interests – the ones he kept secret from the tax office and the police. Sandy Selkirk dealt in high-class stolen goods, and acted as a middleman selling art works, antiques and jewellery to discreet customers on behalf of the thieves who had stolen them. Sandy Selkirk was also well acquainted with Eroica.

Dorian picked up the phone. “Sandy, delightful to hear from you!” 

“Good to speak with you again, too, my lord,” Selkirk said warmly.

“What can I do for you, Sandy? Do you have a keen customer who needs something in particular?” On one or two occasions in the past, Eroica had performed commissioned thefts for Selkirk.

“No, my lord, not this time. My lord, I’m afraid something rather worrying has come up, and I thought I’d better let you know about it. It’s to do with a painting that’s just come on the market in Belgium. It was offered to a colleague of mine in Antwerp; he called me because he knows one of my regular customers is keen on paintings of the kind. The thing is, the man who’s offering it for sale is claiming it was stolen by Eroica – some years ago, now – but I happen to know that Eroica didn’t perform this particular theft.”

“What! Someone taking my name in vain? Now, that just won’t do.” Dorian was immediately on the alert. “What painting is this, Sandy?”

“A seventeenth century oil, my lord – _Landscape with an Obelisk_ , by Govaert Flinck. It’s a wee bit of a surprise, of course, because this hasn’t been seen for nearly twenty years now—”

“—since it was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum in 1990,” Dorian finished. “Sandy, this is extremely interesting. Have you actually seen the painting?”

“No, my lord.”

“Do you know anyone you trust who has?”

“No—”

“Look, Sandy – this is the third painting from that heist that’s come to light in the past couple of weeks.”

“Who’d be fool enough to flood the market like that? This has got to be an amateur at work.”

“That’s not all, Sandy. I know for a fact that one of them is a forgery. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and it’s not genuine. The second is being checked, and I’m expecting to hear that it’s a forgery too. I’d suggest you tell your friend in Antwerp he would be wise to have a close look at that painting before he does anything further.”

“Will do, my lord,” said Selkirk. “What about the attempt to implicate Eroica?”

“Don’t worry, Sandy, I’m taking this very seriously indeed. If you hear any more, I’d be grateful if you’d keep me informed.”

Dorian rang off and went through into the library, where Bonham was busily sorting through a pile of leather-bound books.

“Bonham love, this is getting beyond a joke. Another Gardner heist painting has turned up, with the claim that it was stolen by Eroica. I can’t have my name bandied about like this. Eroica’s reputation is at stake here. I don’t want people thinking I’d be involved in a grubby little enterprise of this kind. Go and get Jamesie and Jones, would you, love? The four of us need to hold a serious discussion about what we do next.”

As the four sat around the work room table pooling what they knew about the situation, two soft beeps signalled the arrival of a text. Dorian flipped open his phone, and read, _'Forgery. K.'_

He smiled grimly. “From the Major. The Vermeer is a forgery – just as I thought. Well, I think that confirms it: we’re dealing with a scam here, selling forged paintings to people with more money than judgement. In the ordinary scheme of things it would be no concern of mine, but since the people behind this seem determined to drag Eroica’s name into the mud I have to take an interest. We need to ensure that this pathetic effort to part fools and their money doesn’t lead Interpol to my door. Jonesy, you’re the man with the eye for a forgery; I want you to go over to Antwerp and see if you can get a look at that picture. Confirm whether it’s a fake – although I’m certain it will be.”

“They’ll only let me see it if they think I’m likely to buy it, my lord.”

“No matter – take some cash with you. Buy the thing if you need to.”

“My lord!” James whined. 

“Jamesie, please. Bonham, go with Jones, will you? Two heads are better than one. See if you can find out who’s behind this. Then we can work out what to do with them.”


	4. Thursday

**THURSDAY**

**Antwerp**

_Of all the unbelievably bad timing—!_

Jones gripped the phone hard, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice. “This is very disappointing – but perhaps there’s still room for negotiation? Perhaps I could see it? Speak with the vendor?”

“I’m so very sorry, sir, but only this morning another customer came to see the painting and he agreed to buy it. It’s being delivered to him as we speak. I regret to disappoint you, sir, but the painting is no longer available.” 

Jones swore under his breath as he hung up the phone. _What now? If the bloody picture’s on its way to the new owner there’s no chance of getting a look at it._

Bonham looked at him expectantly. “What’s up? Problem?” 

“We’re a day too late. Bloody picture’s been sold, and naturally they won’t disclose who to. If we can believe what he told me, it’s being sent off to the new owner right now, this minute.”

“Shit. There goes our best opportunity to find out who’s offering it for sale. Well, that’s that, then. Have to come up with an alternative plan to find out who these people are.”

. 

. 

Bonham turned down the suggestion that they should go for a drink, so Jones was alone when he wandered into the elegant cocktail bar across the street from the hotel. The bar was decorated in high Art Nouveau style, with an overabundance of flowing shapes, mirrors and crystal. Jones ordered a gin rickey, and sat at the bar, surveying the crowd. He felt he’d let Lord Gloria down. If they’d been just a day earlier... 

He looked up at the sound of a greeting.

“Karl. Karl Stoller!” He hadn’t seen Karl for years. When they were both much younger, they’d had a lazy, comfortable affair that had lasted through a summer, and ended when Karl took a job in a different part of the country. Jones remembered their liaison fondly. “Karl, sit down. It’s good to see you.”

Karl joined him at the bar. “JJ, you’re a sight for sore eyes. How long has it been? How are you? Is life treating you well?”

“Not as well as it’s treated you. How many books have you published now?”

Karl Stoller wrote biographies of the gossip-and-scandal variety, and his latest effort – an exposé of an unpopular politician’s corruption – had sold more than a million copies. His writing had made him a rich man. 

“The last book was number seven. My publisher’s got me releasing one every two years these days. It’s hard work, but, hey, someone’s got to do it.” Smiling, Karl signalled to the barman. “Let me buy you a drink, JJ.” 

Karl looked as though he’d already had several drinks himself. His manner was slightly over-exaggerated, and his smile just a little too bright. 

He asked what Jones had been doing since they’d last met, and got the usual sanitised version of events that Jones offered in situations like this: working for a private estate owned by a member of the nobility – managing his lordship’s properties and assisting with his art collection – it’s a living, you meet some interesting people.

“You always did like art, didn’t you? I remember how you used to hang around with the art school crowd. Those were the days, hey?” Karl smiled nostalgically. “I’ve developed an interest in collecting art myself, these last few years. It can be a good investment, you know. To tell you the truth, that’s what’s brought me to Antwerp.”

“You’re here to buy something?” 

“Actually…” Karl drawled teasingly, “I’ve been rather a naughty boy.”

Jones smiled. “I can believe that. You always were. What have you been up to?”

“We-e-e-ll… I’ve bought myself a present.” Karl grinned gleefully, like a little boy indulging in forbidden fruit.

“What, something expensive? Is your accountant going to take you to task for overspending the budget?”

Karl smirked. “It did cost rather a lot, but my accountant’s used to that. He keeps telling me that as long as I invest in paintings that will appreciate, he doesn’t care. No, JJ – thing is, I’ve bought something that perhaps as a law abiding citizen I shouldn’t have.”

Jones blinked at him. “What? Stolen goods?”

“Yeah.” Karl grinned. “Wanna see it?”

. 

. 

Karl pushed open the door to his suite and stood aside to let his old friend through. The painting was propped up on an easel in the sitting room.

“Christ alive,” breathed Jones, “ _Landscape with an Obelisk_. Govaert Flinck. Unbelievable.” He moved in for a closer inspection. 

Karl beamed. “Drink?” he offered, holding up a crystal tumbler.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jones said distractedly. “Gin again, if you’ve got it.” 

“I’ve got the lot,” Karl burbled happily. “Ice?”

Jones grunted, his attention firmly on the painting. 

Karl smiled at his friend’s absorption. “Impressive, hey?”

It _was_ an impressive piece of work. These things often were. The brushwork was good, but… Jones sighed. He really didn’t have the heart to tell Karl just yet that his expensive new acquisition was a forgery.

Handing Jones his drink, Karl flopped into an armchair and swallowed a large mouthful of bourbon. “And there’s more to this story, JJ. You’ll never guess what else happened when I went to buy this. I’m about to embark on writing the most controversial biography of the decade. Eroica.”

“Who?” Jones forced his features into an expression of polite puzzlement. 

Leaning forward confidentially, Karl said, “It was totally unexpected, but leads do come unexpectedly sometimes. The dealer let slip that this painting was stolen by the master thief who calls himself Eroica. Have you heard of him?” 

Jones feigned cluelessness.

“Eroica’s an international art thief. Nobody knows who he really is. He’s wanted in every continent on the face of the earth, and they can’t catch him. I’m negotiating to meet him through the art dealer. If he agrees to let me write his story—“

“Why would a thief do that?” Jones interrupted. “Why would he reveal his identity to you, or let you write about him? Surely that’s the last thing a criminal would do?”

“Vanity, my dear JJ, vanity. Eroica’s an arrogant bastard, by all accounts; taunts the authorities, rubs their noses in their own incompetence. He’ll agree, all right.”

“So how would it work? Would he get paid?” 

“Of course. He’ll demand a hefty fee, all sorts of guarantees – but it’ll be worth every penny. The book will be a best-seller, no two ways about it.”

Jones couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. When did Karl become so gullible? The man had built a career on breaking through the facades other people built around their lives – so what had happened to that ‘healthy scepticism’ he used to talk about? Could he honestly believe that a thief wanted by police around the world would be so easily persuaded to break his cover? Just who was the arrogant bastard here? 

“Karl, think about this very seriously, will you? You might regret getting mixed up in this.”

“JJ, this is what I do for a living. I’m not afraid of people who live outside the law. He’s an art thief, not a psychotic serial killer.”

“Look, Karl, this whole thing – the painting, the interview – someone’s playing you for a fool.”

Annoyance flashed across Karl’s face. “I appreciate your concern, JJ, but it’s really not your business.”

“Maybe not, but that inbuilt bullshit detector you used to be so proud of seems to have stopped working. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your painting is a fake. You’ve been taken in – you’ve blown your money.”

Karl gaped at him. “What are you talking about? This painting was part of the Isabella Stewart Gardner heist—“

“No, Karl, this painting is a forgery.”

Karl bolted to his feet, sloshing bourbon on the floor. “What do you mean? How can it be a forgery? It can’t be!” He stared at the painting, horrified.

“Karl— it’s a forgery. It’s part of a scam. It’s not the only Gardner collection painting on the market right now, and they’re all bloody fakes. And furthermore, if there’s someone offering to talk to you for a hefty fee, claiming to be Eroica, the man you speak to will be a fake, too. Not that it would get that far. Most likely they’ll demand payment up-front and then disappear without a trace. You’ll just be chucking good money after bad. Fuck it, Karl, cut your losses and leave well enough alone.”

“I can’t believe it. How could this happen? How could I not see it?”

“Karl, shut up and sit down. No, don’t drink any more. I’ll make you some coffee. Where do you keep the coffee pot?”

While Jones busied himself making a pot of coffee, Karl sat staring at the forged painting that had cost him a large amount of money and an even larger amount of his self-respect.

“Come on, Karl, don’t blame yourself. People get taken in by fraud like this every day. It’s not the end of the world.”

“But _I_ don’t get taken in like this every day. I’m the cynical investigative biographer, remember? I ask the hard questions, get the tough answers.” He accepted the steaming mug of coffee Jones held out to him. “I can’t fucking believe that this happened.”

Jones sat down in the chair opposite. The transformation he saw in Karl was startling. The self-confident, self-satisfied swagger had disappeared completely. The man looked shocked, puzzled. Jones felt some sympathy for him – after all, he’d been fond of him once – but he also recognised that this was his second chance to find out who was behind the scam, so he tried to steer the conversation back to Karl’s negotiations with the art dealer.

“Look, Karl – you said you were negotiating to meet this Eroica. What’s been arranged?”

“Nothing yet. The dealer was going to phone me back tonight. But when you said the picture was a fake… You’re probably right, JJ; it’s probably going to be another scam.”

“Maybe. Now, listen to me. If he calls, I want you to agree to any meeting he wants to set up.”

A confused frown clouded Karl’s face. “JJ, what’s going on? Are you with the police? You are! You’re investigating this, aren’t you?”

Jones didn’t bother to contradict him. “I’m interested in finding out who’s behind this, and you can help me. When they call—“

Karl’s mobile phone rang shrilly. He answered. 

“Karl Stoller here.” He looked across at Jones as he listened. “Yes… Yes… Yes, of course, without question… Yes… Eleven am tomorrow?” Karl reached for a pen and paper lying on the coffee table, and scrawled down an address. “Yes, thank you. I will.” 

The call ended.

“They want to meet me tomorrow morning at eleven. I’m to bring cash. Five hundred thousand euros.”

Jones nodded, and held out his hand for the address. “Don’t go. I’ll send someone else to meet them.” He stood up. “It’s been good to see you again, Karl. I’m sorry this happened to you. But cut your losses – let it go.”

They shook hands. Jones let himself out. 

. 

. 

Back at their own hotel suite, Jones filled Bonham in on what had happened.

“So the famous investigative biographer let himself be taken in, did he?” Bonham sniffed in disgust. “Twice.”

“You don’t sound very sympathetic, Bonham.”

“I’m not. Got no time for muck-rakers. Wavin’ other people’s dirty linen out in the open.” Bonham caught sight of Jones’s expression and sighed. “Sorry, Jonesy; you used to have a thing goin’ with him once, didn’t you?”

“Long time ago now. Doesn’t matter. To tell the truth, I’m a bit shocked that he could be so easily taken in. He used to be pretty sharp. It’s almost as if he’s become so self-convinced he can’t imagine anyone would try to put one over him.”

“Mmm. Started to believe what it says about him on the back cover of his own books. Anyway – we need to let Lord Gloria know about this development.” Bonham reached for the phone.

Dorian received the news with fierce delight. 

“A meeting with Eroica? I should say whoever we’re dealing with is even more unprofessional than I’d thought. Flooding the market with forgeries is one thing; at least they can expect fools who’ve been duped to keep their mouths shut. Offering to sell interviews to an author takes things to another level. Bonham, where’s this meeting supposed to take place?”

Bonham read out the address, adding, “It’s a café just off the Grote Markt, in the old part of the city – classy place; quiet.”

“Right,” Dorian said, “then let’s send someone along to keep the appointment, shall we? What was the name of that insufferable churl from Interpol the Major was complaining about? Fournier, was it? Bonham love, make an anonymous call to Interpol and let Inspector Fournier know that if he wants to arrest Eroica, he’d better turn up at this café at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”


	5. Friday

**FRIDAY**

**Bonn**

It was already nearly eight pm, and the offices on the fifth floor of NATO Headquarters were dark, except for one.

“Von dem Eberbach.” Klaus answered the phone in brisk tones, without looking up from the file he was working on. 

The voice at the other end was hushed and hurried – someone who didn’t want to be overheard. “Major, it’s Gerd Scherer. I’ve just got word that Interpol have reported an arrest in the stolen painting affair. Eroica’s been arrested in Antwerp. I thought you’d like to know.”

Klaus sat staring into space, not quite taking in the rest of what Scherer said. Eroica arrested? After evading the authorities for all these years? He’d never really thought it would be possible. It had to be a mistake. 

Scherer rang off. With clumsy fingers, Klaus dialled Dorian’s number at North Downs. The phone rang three times, and was answered by a familiar voice he could not put a name to: one of Dorian’s pack of thieves. 

“It’s Major von dem Eberbach, in Bonn. I want to speak to Lord Gloria.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Lord Gloria is not at home. May I take a message?”

“No. Let me speak to someone with some sense. Is Bonham there?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid Mr Bonham is not available either.”

 _Fuck it._ Klaus hung up without another word, and dialled again – Dorian’s mobile this time. There was every chance it would be answered by an Interpol officer, and that the call would be traced – but he was willing to take the risk.

The phone rang through to the message bank.

Klaus reached for a cigarette. If Dorian had been arrested, he would be powerless to help him. Eroica had been wanted by Interpol for more than thirty years. Once they had him, they wouldn’t let him go. 

There was nothing he could do here. Pulling on his jacket, he headed for home, his thoughts in turmoil.

. 

. 

Klaus drove into the underground garage beneath his apartment. His mind was so preoccupied he barely recalled anything of the journey home, but as he turned the Benz toward its parking space his attention snapped back to full alertness. There was a car in the spare parking space next to his own. A red Lamborghini.

_What the—?_

Klaus took the stairs two at a time. He unlocked his apartment with his key in his left hand, and his gun in his right. If this was a trap—

The door swung open.

“Klaus, darling, you work too hard. Can’t you let yourself out of the office any earlier than this?”

Dorian was lounging in Klaus’s favourite armchair, a portrait of decadence in silk and leather. Klaus had never been so happy to see him in all his life.

“I’d heard that you’d been arrested.”

“I believe Interpol did make an arrest, but it wasn’t me, darling. I wonder if they’ve worked it out yet. If there’s any justice in this world, their counterfeit Eroica should keep them occupied for some time. Who knows, they may even be fooled into thinking they’ve got the real thing.”

. 

. 

**Later that night**

Flushed from lovemaking, sweat cooling on their skin, Dorian and Klaus lay tangled together in a mound of rumpled sheets. 

Dorian stretched and yawned luxuriously before spooning up against his lover. “Klaus, now that Fournier has made an arrest, do you think he’ll stop pressing you for information about Eroica?”

“Depends. If he thinks the idiot he arrested is Eroica, he’ll be happy. But that can’t last. He’ll eventually realise he’s not Eroica, and you’ll be back on the wanted list.” 

“Well, at the very least, when he finds out that they haven’t got the right man they’ll recognise that Eroica wasn’t responsible for passing off a wave of second-rate forgeries. Eroica is a master thief. Cheap deception is beneath my dignity.”

Dorian’s wounded professional pride amused Klaus. Once, it would have provoked an angry rant, but Klaus’s attitude to Dorian’s thieving had mellowed with time. 

“Dorian. Tell me the truth. _Did_ you rob the Gardner museum?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Do you know who did? Does anybody?”

Dorian remembered his phone conversation with Sandy Selkirk. ‘I happen to know that Eroica didn’t perform this particular theft,’ he’d said. _The old rascal. I’ll bet he knows who it was._

“I don’t know who did it, Klaus. Somebody must know, but I don’t.”

Klaus had a feeling his lover knew more than he was saying, but he had also learned it was no use trying to prise information out of him. Besides, if Eroica hadn’t robbed the museum, did it matter who had? 

He sat up briefly, untangling the bedclothes and straightening the pillows out, then lay down again, pulling Dorian into a loose embrace. 

“Dorian, do you ever think of giving this up? You don’t need the money.”

“Darling, what would I do with myself? Collect stamps? Take up croquet? This is what I am, Klaus: I _am_ Eroica.”

“You’re a middle aged man, that’s what you are. You’ve had a thirty-year lucky streak that’s kept you one step ahead of the law. Someday, your luck might run out.”

Dorian pouted. “Klaus, you’re a pessimist. It’s skill and know-how that have kept me out of the clutches of the police, not just blind luck. Anyway, do I see you accepting a well-deserved promotion and moving into a desk job?”

Klaus glared. “ _Ja_ , I know, I know,” he grumbled. “As you say, it’s what I am.”

Dorian pushed Klaus onto his back and straddled his hips. “And not so much of the ‘middle aged’, please – I’m still as agile as I ever was.”

“That’s a very big claim.”

 _He can never resist a challenge_ , Klaus thought happily as Dorian set about proving just how agile he was.

**Author's Note:**

> The robbery at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum took place in the early hours of the morning on 18 March 1990, and at the time this story was written, the artworks had not been traced and the crime remained unsolved. The three works mentioned in this story were among the items stolen. Everything else is, of course, fiction.


End file.
